


A Notable Incident

by Nito



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nito/pseuds/Nito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canada has had enough, and has given up. In the most vocal of ways. Aftermath included, slight NedCan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Character death, possibly triggering, mentions of self-harm, suicide, alcohol usage.

"I bet you're all wondering why I've called you here today."

It was a big room. Wide, vacant, echoing, with just a video camera and a lone nation towards the front. He sat on a chair, legs crossed hands folded across his lap. Very polite, that was for sure. Certainly like to keep up appearances, even if the situation was dark and cruel. A smile drifted across his face.

This was it. This was the moment.

While he was certainly alone, the video camera connected itself to the televisions of nations all across the world. Almost 200 pairs of eyes were on him. Finally. A grande finale, of which that had never been seen before. Not even by the oldest nations. Even if the technology didn't exist back then. This was something new, and also, something frightening. Not for him though. His mind had been made up long before he had entered the room, set up the recording system, before he had even known how he was going to go about this.

His death.

"It's a rather special occasion really. Definitely not one you're going to forget for the next decade or so. I hope you enjoy it."

And they had no idea. No idea that soon his final words were going to be spoken, his final breath was going to cycle through his lungs, soon his blood would stop flowing, his heart would stop beating, he would not speak. Like anyone ever listened to him when he spoke anyways. And they couldn't even apologize! That was the beauty of it. By the time they would figure it out, that he had planned his death as a spectacle to be burned into the minds of every country, it would already be too late. They couldn't show their remorse, they couldn't acknowledge him if he were dead.

To be sure, he had locked the door beforehand.

"Now on with the show, right? Don't turn off your televisions! Actually you can't. I've programmed them to stay right here. You can't escape. At least, you shouldn't try. You mean your curiosity isn't killing you yet? Very well. I don't want to inconvenience anyone, so I'll try to hurry things along." He spoke in a monotone voice. There was not a hint of emotion. He didn't want to give away the surprise, now did he? That would be rude.

There was another smile. It was forced, toothy, malicious, wholly unnatural. Unlike him. Not there was anything to compare it to. He didn't smile much. Rather, no one saw him smile much. He smiled when he was alone. He rather liked being alone. It was nice. Quiet. Relaxing, even. Truthfully, it did get boring sometimes. But it's not like he could change that, could he? And certainly not now. Not that he wanted to. It would be boring if he backed out now.

And he didn't want his final act, his act of cowardice, to be remembered as boring.

He uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. Like he had been taught. Always a gentleman. Deranged smile plastered on his face like a mask. A terrifying mask that struck fear into the nations that were watching.

\--

France and England sat there staring at the television England had set up in living room, shellshocked. "What the bloody hell does he think he's doing, France?" Neither of them had an answer. All they could do now was watch and pray. Pray that he wouldn't do something stupid. Something he would regret. Or worse.

Their eyes were glued to the television set. What would he do next?

\--

He had a gun. Not just any gun, though. It was his favorite. It was a pistol, one he had carried with him starting with the Korean War, throughout Vietnam and even Afghanistan. All for him. His brother. Absolute scum. He had done everything for him. His people died because of the wars he was involved in. Only because that bastard, that arrogant fuck asked him to. Begged him to. Because he dug himself a hole, a hole he was stuck in for good. And asked him to join him. In policing the world. Trying to bring freedom to the world.

What bullshit. All he wanted was their oil, or to shove his power in Russia's face. That oblivious, idiotic, disgusting little shit head. His brother, his own twin, was such a fool. And it's not like he was any better. He was supposed to be a peaceful nation. But it seemed like all he did was fight, and he was sick of it. He was a pawn in everyone's games, only remembered when he was necessary. Used and then tossed aside like a condom. Only good for a moment, until everything was said and done and they slunk back into their own little worlds, not regretting, not even acknowledging that he had been screwed over. A pity no one showed even a little remorse.

But it was time to forget that now. It would all be over soon. No need to remember now. The world was watching.

His smile turned into a frown. There was a knock at the door. He chose to ignore it.

"You're all going to witness something very special. Something you have never seen before, and something you will probably hope to never see again. The death of a nation. Let's let that sink in for a moment, ok? But not for too long, someone's at the door. Better hurry things up, eh?" A chuckle escaped his chapped lips. He was so close.

With his sweaty palms, he picked the pistol up of the floor. It was dirty and old from years of use. Regrettable. He wrapped his finger around the trigger. Just a few more moments. The knocking at the door got more frantic, the frame of the door started to shake. Someone was trying to break it down.

"Sunk in yet? Good. Someone's trying to break down the door, unfortunately, so it looks like I have no more time. Ironic isn't it. Looks like I'm going to live my final moments in the shadow of America. Well... Adieu." He stuck the pistol in his mouth, and aimed upward towards his head. The final moment. He pulled the trigger, his body losing its gentlemanly composure, slumping to the floor. The gunshot echoed in the room, a last and final cry of goodbye. The door gave way, and a flustered America ran into the room.

There was blood and bits of brain everywhere. The wall of the room was covered in it. There was a scream. It echoed as well, reverberating through the walls, reaching the camera, and then reaching the ears of every nation who had watched Canada's demise. America knelt down next to his brother. Memories surfaced for him.

Kennedy.

It was all eerily familiar. The smell of blood, of it pooling along the linoleum floor. Brain matter clinging onto the wall like putty. A scream. He remembered the screams. Not just his own. But this time it was all his fault. It was too late now to go back and fix anything. Nothing could be done. America cradled his brother's limp body in his arms, the blood from the back of his head flowing onto his jacket and hands, staining them. It was no use to attempt any kind of resuscitation.

Canada - Matthew, Mattie, brother - was gone. Forever. For good. Why.

It was not a question, but a statement. Why.

\--

England couldn't take it anymore. Bile rose in his throat, and he gagged. He ran to the bathroom, the contents of his stomach removing themselves by force. His Canada. His sweet baby. Gone. It couldn't be true. It was a lie. It hadn't really happened. Couldn't have.

He walked out into the living room where France was sitting, face in his hands. England sat down next to him. He didn't speak. He didn't dare breathe.

All was quiet.

\--

The funeral procession was short. No one quite knew what to do. This had never happened before. Condolences were offered, words of comfort were accepted. It would have been sweet if it weren't a funeral. America sat there emotionless. Unfeeling. If he felt, he would definitely shatter into a million pieces. How he wished that was true. How he wished that this had never happened.

Too late for remorse now.

\--

Canada had left his land and people to England. It was only right, after all. To end where it began. But eventually everyone left. Without a nation, there was no warmth, no love in the soil. The land was dead without its owner. No one spoke of the incident, except in quiet whispers in dark alleyways, in the pitch black of a bedroom, or in musty empty bars. In places where no one could over hear. At this point, it was certain that no one could forget the day that one of their own decided to end themselves.

It would never be forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been 8 long months since his death. Netherlands hadn't left his house since the funeral. Belgium was worried about him and yet she never stopped by to check up on him. They were family and yet they didn't actually care about each other. That was how a country's relationships worked usually.

Canada was different though. He was always happy to see Netherlands, always asked how he was doing and if he was feeling alright. It was nice to be cared for. And Netherlands had loved him in return. And where had he gone wrong? Was he too blunt, too rough? Did he not call him enough or did he go to see him too often? It's not like he could ask Canada the answer. And that just broke him inside. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing scattered unclean cuts along his arms. Netherlands had tried blocking out and hiding from the pain by creating more pain, but it wasn't working. He still felt. His heart still ached every time the maple leaves were blown down the sidewalk by the wind, and when the Olympics had came on the television and announced the contestants in the hockey portion of the games. Something that Canada would never participate in again.

Rummaging through his pants pocket, he finally found what he had been looking for. It was a small switchblade. He ran his thumb along the cool metal of the blade. 'Not today,' he thought to himself. 'You can hold out. You can make it through. Put it back in your pocket, ok?' Netherlands was strong. He gripped the knife's handle tight, causing his knuckles to turn white. Just one cut. One fresh open wound. That's all. That's all he needed.

He swiftly threw the knife against the wall. It stuck. He stood and walked over the closet, opening it. He put on a coat and his trademark scarf and walked out the door. Lighting a cigarette, Netherlands walked the moonlit streets of Amsterdam, wanting love that could not be, and a life that would never change.

In the red light district, prostitutes beckoned for him to come in and forget himself. Pain wouldn't change anything, and neither would sex, drugs, or alcohol. The man Netherlands had loved the most was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt like he had abandoned Canada in a time of need. He just hadn't known. No one could have known. He always seemed so happy, so willing to help, to be a shoulder to lean on. Maybe that's what he was tired of. Why he chose to quit.

It couldn't have been because of him, could it? Netherlands had always blamed himself. In some way, it was all his fault. The women in the window held no interest to him they never had. Finally out of the red light district, Netherlands had finally found the place he was looking for. It was a cafe, one he had taken Canada to at the start of their relationship. He opened the door and walked inside, sitting in a booth in a far corner of the cafe. The cafe was dimly lit and smelled of incense and coffee, a mixture that at the same time was inviting yet repulsed the nation. It brought back too many memories of the past, of the good times he used to have. The waitress came by and he order coffee, black, in the hopes that it would keep him awake and he wouldn't have to sleep. The nights had haunted him ever since that day. His brain would replay the incident over and over again in his head.

The gunshot. America's screams. The blood splattered on the wall like paint. How afterwards, when Canada's body had been moved the rest of the brain matter had fallen out through the gaping hole in the back of his head. They had turned off the camera by then, but Netherlands had read the incident report that had been written up. He remembered how it smelled to. The coppery scent of blood and the putrid stink of death had lingered in the air. He was used to it of course, because like every nation he had encountered war.

But never had there been the death of a nation by a nation's own hand. It filled the air, heavy and dark like a cloud made of poison, it slowly choked out all happiness within its radius. All of these things kept the Germanic nation awake at night. He didn't dare sleep anymore because the pain of reliving one of the worst moments in his life was just too much.

His coffee came, and he greedily drank the liquid, letting it burn his throat and feeling the warmth pool in his stomach. Something else was there too. Regret? No, regret usually made itself known by giving him a splitting headache. This was something unfamiliar.

Acceptance.

Canada was gone and there was nothing he could do nothing he could ever do to change that and Netherlands just had to accept it or it would be his own downfall next and he didn't think the world could take another country's death, that would just be cruel and despicable of him.

Netherlands sat his coffee mug down, along with a few euros to pay for it. He got up and walked out of the cafe, and headed towards Belgium's place. Hopefully she would be awake. Hopefully he would be welcomed.

It was time to move on. He could mourn, still. But at some point he had to stop wallowing in his own self pity. Netherlands lit another cigarette and meandered down the road, taking his time towards the unknown.

\--

Kumajiro roamed the frozen tundra of what was once the proud nation of Canada. Left to the wilderness, cities, suburbs, all that was once there had grown into a surreal kind of wildlife preserve. Chipmunks, gophers, squirrels and marmots made their homes in the houses people that had once lived there. It was now overgrown with trees and grass breaking through pavement and cement, turning houses into habitats for small woodland creatures.

The bear certainly looked quite feral, but inside he was just wondering where his master had gone. Why hadn't he come home in so long? Kumajiro missed having regular meals that Canada had left out for him, so he had had to turn to the wild. At least with the nation's population gone, there were more room for animals, which meant more food for the ravenous Kumajiro.

His fur was matted and tangled, and as the polar bear stalked the streets of Ontario, he wondered why he was left this way. Something had gone wrong, he could feel it. But what? Kumajiro let out a growl that was laden in sorrow. Maybe his master would hear him and come home? The bear could only hope.

\--

He was drunk. Not just drunk, but completely and utterly wasted out of his mind. Whiskey, although not his usual choice in alcohol, sure got the job done fast. He swilled the amber liquid around in his glass, and then abruptly downing it all at once. The alcohol burned the back of his throat, but luckily he was a seasoned drinker and paid no mind. France poured himself another glass and promptly laid back down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

For awhile he had been trying to drown his sorrows but his sorrows had learned how to swim.

In recent months, France had become almost unbearable. The loss of his son or at least that's how France had always thought of Canada had made him increasingly depressed, which caused him to be more inclined to drink. And no one really bothered to stop him. Who would want to, really? It was far easier to deal with a drunk France than a hysterical one. Why was it that the countries were all so uncaring? Was it that they had seen it all? They couldn't be bothered to offer their hand to France because they knew how he would react? Or that they had never been in such a scenario, and were afraid? Whatever the reason, it was petty and heartless, and France couldn't really care for the lot of them anyways.

Fuck love. He was supposed to be the nation of love, true, but he just couldn't stand it anymore. So far love had only brought him pain. How he hated pain. Therefore, he hated love. To see his darling baby Canada kill himself, alone, and to see America so broken, and England had left him too, drunk and cold and alone as well.

The alcohol helped him forget. Remembering hurt. Everything hurt, in fact. Breathing, touching, loving, speaking, moving. The alcohol helped that too. France was in a haze, a mere shadow of the nation he used to be. Sorrow had enveloped him, welcoming him and wrapping its arms around him like an embrace. Then strangling him until he could no longer breathe and could no longer find a way to break free. He was trapped in himself with no way out.

France knew that. He couldn't fight it and didn't particularly want to. It's not that he was content, but Canada's death had struck him in his very core, and he didn't enjoy remembering that. Having children, raising them, is like raising a piece of yourself. And that piece of France was gone now. Death was so final, so cruel, ripping away the people that you loved most at a moment's notice. Without warning.

Lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, France blew the smoke into the air. He knocked back another glass of whiskey, took another drag from the cigarette, lather, rinse, repeat.

He rolled over on the couch, putting his cigarette out by grinding it into the upholstery. A half-drunk shot of whiskey sat on the coffee table, inviting him to take another sip. To forget some more. France stood, and fell to the ground with a thud. He was more drunk than he thought. No matter. It would resolve itself in the morning. The hangover would come, he would regret and then do it all over again. He faded quickly into unconsciousness.

Know this, dear reader, that they would all recover. It would take time, and it would take will, but things would eventually go back to the way they were. Somewhat. Canada would be held in remembrance, and those closest to him would battle their demons. Such is life and such is moving on.


End file.
